Penance
by LemondropDead
Summary: Dean finds himself in an inexplicable situation. Does he deserve it?


A/N: For now, one shot with a possibility of a spinoff.

Disclaimer: I don't own SPN, y'all.

-LdD

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**Penance **

In trouble again, and this time he can't even remember why.

Dean's face is pale against the falling snow; his lips are chapped and bloody. Breath misting in the cold, he wraps his arms wrapped around his torso in an attempt to stay warm. It's no use – the temperature is at 30 degrees Fahrenheit and dropping. He looks up at the sky, squinting into the inky blackness at the minute pinpoints of white high above. Stars or just snowflakes, he can't tell. He staggers, head spinning sickeningly, and slumps on his knees in the snow.

Not good. Very much not good.

He forces himself up and trudges - where he is, how he got there, he does not know. Something to do with angels, probably. Something to do with Castiel. Some sick prank, a way to twist his arm, force him into doing something. Like Zacheriah all over again.

Maybe. He can't remember.

Too cold to remember.

Or maybe he's just drunk.

Drunk, cold, and _paranoid. _Great combo.

Which reminds him. Reaching in his pocket, his fingers brush a cold, hard object: a flask. He grabs it on instinct, unscrews the top with trembling fingers.

No, not now. Got to keep going. He can do this on his own – doesn't need help from anyone or anything, angels and alcohol be damned. Keep pushing, Dean Winchester, it's a long walk back to Eden. He read that in a Stephen King book once – yeah, imagine Dean Winchester reading, but hell. Stranger things have happened. Probably.

Well, getting stuck here is one of them.

Top twisted back on, he pockets the flask. His hands fumble, swollen in the cold. God, it's cold. Dark trees loom all around; he wonders if this is Purgatory again, Purgatory in winter. Well, imagine that. Looking around again, he decides that no, probably not Purgatory – not enough vamps and monsters. And it's too cold to be Hell.

Hallucination? Dream tea? Djinn induced coma?

Nah, he decides in the end. Too cold for any of that.

Angel mojo gone wrong – that's more likely.

Drunk, plus angel mojo gone wrong – that's one he'd wager on.

But he's still Dean Winchester. He's still going to get out of here all on his own. Doesn't need help from anyone, doesn't need to crawl. Sure there've been times before when he's groveled, thrown himself to the mercy of some hopefully benevolent entity – God, anyone? – who never answered. But this isn't one of those times, those times are over, he's not going back. Doesn't need anyone.

White chapped lips, bleeding lips. He falls in the snow again, gets a mouthful of powder. Why is he here again? No clue. None at all – only the vague idea that this is some punishment for all of his failures. Because if you step back and look at it, pretend that his life is a big abstract painting, you realize that despite all the people he's saved, he's still amassed one hellova body count.

He's still almost ended the world.

Maybe, angel pranks and alcoholism aside, this is just righteous punishment, no matter what form.

When he decides that he can't go on anymore because he can't feel his legs, Dean finds a tree to slump against and sits, panting, covered in snow. His face feels frozen to the touch, or it would if the nerve endings in his fingertips still worked. Mind spinning, he tries to think a way out of this mess – never mind how he got into it or why, he's just lost in freaking Siberia or something, but never mind that now – but he can't come up with anything. There's no shelter near enough, he doesn't have a lighter, no way to get warm. Nothing around for miles, he guesses. No hope either.

Does he even deserve to get out?

Well, one way to find out – one last gamble.

"Cas, please… get me out of here…"

Nothing.

For long moments, all Dean can hear is the whistle of wind on the snow, in the tree tops. The stars flicker in the inky sky, snowflakes flutter to kiss his face, and he sits against the tree getting colder by the minute. Colder and colder and colder, until it's just sort of numb all over, and then his eyes are closing—

_Stop it,_ he tells himself, _wake up and stay awake or you'll die! Stay awake for Cas!_

But he's starting to feel warmer. Like there's this big downy blanket surrounding him, like he's a kid again and his mom just tucked him into bed. Like he's dying of cold, freezing to death, and for a brief moment he wonders if dying's going to hurt like he's always expected it to, like it has every time he's died before. Because he's Dean Winchester, and dying isn't anything new.

Does he deserve this?

"Cas, help. Please help."

A last desperate whisper against the closing darkness. His eyes flicker, he fights with the remnant of his waning strength, but it's no good. Snowy darkness folds in on him and Cas doesn't come, no one comes, because maybe he doesn't deserve to be saved, or maybe it's just too cold outside for angels to fly.

He closes his eyes.


End file.
